


You Are A Runner And I Am My Father's Son

by Jenwryn



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Arthur Finds Out, F/M, Gift Fic, M/M, Misuse of Arthurian canon, Otherwise fuzzy canon, Post Season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-19
Updated: 2011-07-12
Packaged: 2017-10-20 13:29:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/213279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/pseuds/Jenwryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had seemed like a good idea at the time.</p><p>Otherwise known as, the fic where it all goes to shit, but at least Arthur figures out what he really wants from life. More or less.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ca_te](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ca_te/gifts), [passthebutter](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=passthebutter).



> For Chloe, because I started this story for you, so very long ago. And for Cate, because it's her birthday, and this was the least I could offer. (Even if it is like one of those tv shows, where storyline sucks sooo bad, and you only watch it in the hope that the characters you like are going to hook up. Yeah. This is sort of rubbish.) ♥
> 
> ALSO: the original plan was to post the entirety of this story at the same time, all in one go. This afternoon, however, I have managed to fuck with the formatting et al three ways to Thursday, and the thought of spending the night fixing 20,000+ words of html makes me want to slap kittens. Ergo – for the sake of kittens everywhere – it's going up in pieces.

It had seemed like a good idea, at the time. Well, not even that, specifically, so much as... so much as something of a necessity, almost. A whim, certainly, but not solely that: a reach, perhaps, for a fraction of normality-that-was. A touch of hunting. A bit of a break. Some time, just a tiny bit of time, for the most worn of his men to relax, just a little, away from the weight of the damaged Court. Some time, perhaps, with Gwen, and with Merlin; some time, just maybe, to watch them bicker cheerfully in the light of a camp-fire. Some time, possibly, just for a second, to pretend that the events of the last few months had never occurred and that maybe, maybe, he would be returning home to a father who would do nothing more than berate his son for having wasted so many hours with so little to show for it.

And, you know. It really had seemed like a good idea. At the time.

It was only supposed to have been for a single night.

Now, though. Now, with a gloved hand pressed against the wound in his thigh, and with his eyes stinging beneath the dull pulse of dusk, Arthur Pendragon rather suspects that, instead, it might very well prove to be one of the worst decisions in his entire life and, fuck, and Gwen–

Arthur can't so much as _think_ about Gwen.

He can barely think about Merlin, come to that. It's hard not to though, all things considered, and the muscles in Arthur's face flex with worry as he glances, for what feels like the thousandth time, to his right, and then leans, probably for the thousand-and-first time, to check that the bindings – holding an unconscious Merlin to his mare – are still secure. Pain sears up Arthur's legs as he moves to tug at the leather, but it's a relief, really, to focus on that instead of the worry pushing through his mind.

The forest hangs around them like a soaked cloak, and it is worryingly unfamiliar. Arthur finds himself imagining bandits, or druids, or magically undead armies, or even regular armies, or perhaps a single, black-haired woman – imagining them, as though each or any of those threats could stand at every curve and corner and shadowy dip. It keeps him tense in the saddle, despite habitually forcing his knees to relax and sit easy; it keeps him tense, and makes his eyes hurt as he peers ahead of them, as though constantly staring will help avoid trouble, despite years of experience having taught him the error in that kind of thinking. He blinks, relaxes his eyelids as he relaxes his knees; he glances again at Merlin, and does not think about Gwen.

Does not think about the faces of the women and men, waiting back in Camelot, whom he will have to tell, if he ever manages to get back there, that they will never see their loved-ones again. _When_ he manages to get back there, he corrects himself, out of habit more than anything else. When. He glances again at Merlin, peers deeper into the trees, and relaxes his knees. He wonders whether there will be any bodies left to take back to the mourners.

Just a break. Just one, stupid, stupid break, and this is what they get from it?

Somewhere, a bird cries shrilly.

Arthur lifts his hand from his blood-stained thigh, and rubs at his face; he smells of dirt and iron. He pushes his hair from his eyes then reaches, again, to brush at Merlin's shoulder. Merlin hasn't moved – not an inch – nor uttered so much as a grumble – since Arthur had heaved him up and tied him there. Arthur has been trying to convince himself that that, amongst it all, is the one small mercy. Convincing yourself doesn't function too well, however, when there's an even more insistent voice, at the back of your mind, chanting that even a crying Merlin, even a yelling Merlin, even a petulant and complaining Merlin, would surely, surely be better than _this_ Merlin – still and blank as a stone.

And Gwen—

Arthur bites his lip, relaxes his knees, and urges the horses ever forwards.

He really, really can't afford to so much as think about either of them.

*

(Gwen closes her eyes, and opens them again. The dusky smell of the room hasn't changed for her having done so, but it makes the transition from the dark behind her lids, to the sudden bright of her surroundings, significantly less problematic. She blinks again, and tries for a word, but finds that her voice isn't quite obeying her.

“You don't need to worry,” purrs Morgana – and how could it be anyone but Morgana, and how could that voice be any more familiar, as if she'd been Gwen's sister herself – “it's simply an effect of the spell you've been under. Your speech is fine, really. So long as you don't start screaming, but I suppose the would-be Queen of Camelot wouldn't attempt anything as undignified as that, would she now?”

Gwen can see her captor. Framed in a halo of gold, from the candles behind her, Morgana looks more beautiful than ever. She looks colder, too, as if her very skin were cut from marble; unchangeable, except to shift into the expressions she uses so well. Oh, so well, and Gwen can remember each and every one of them. Morgana had been her mistress; Morgana had been her companion; oh, Morgana had been her friend. Her best friend, until the magic, until Merlin, until so many things but, ultimately, until the betrayal. Gwen would have forgiven anything but that.

Would forgive even that, probably, if truth be told, were she not currently bound and captive, and were there not fear in her throat that she had been taken solely and only as another attempt to hook Arthur on the witches' line.

If only there weren't such vitriol in her eyes, when Morgana speaks of _queens_ and _dignity_.

Gwen moves her jaw, licks her tongue to the top of her mouth, and tries again. “I never wanted,” she manages, “to be Queen of Camelot. Not... not in the way that you mean.”

Only in the way that it was part of being in love with Arthur. Only in the way that it felt her life were pushing her in that direction. Only in the way that—

Morgana laughs, rolls her eyes, and Gwen's body slams back into the wall. Gwen's bones rattle as she finds herself no longer bound, but the impenetrable stone at her spine hurts as if she'd been dropped down a staircase. She scrabbles for the walls, holds herself up right. “Morgana,” she pleads, but the tone doesn't come out quite how she intends it and, even if she couldn't hear the reproach with her own ears, she can see the consequences of it on Morgana's face.)

*

The stream is chattering to itself, insultingly cheerfully, a few feet from where Arthur lays Merlin carefully down. The direction, which Arthur had been forced to take, after their camp had been razed, has led them consistently away from Camelot, and the forest is neverendingly unfamiliar. He has a loose idea of where they are, he tells himself – the land, in flat form, is spread across the plane of Arthur's mind, from long winters spent poring over maps, with tutors, and with Geoffrey. But theoretical knowledge isn't the same as genuine understanding, and his patrols have never brought him here.

Arthur dislikes the feel of unease, which insists on sliming its way beneath his skin, as if somehow the land itself could be more fearful then the cold feel of Merlin's skin, so clammy against his touch. And there's a Keep, up ahead of them, nestled at what appears to be the edge of the forest, but which Arthur suspects is probably only a clearing; the Keep's walls curve in such a way, against the land, and against the stream, that, from here, Arthur can't tell what lies beyond. All he knows is that he's been turned around more than once today, and the spectres of dead men keep rising in his throat; he doesn't know where he is are, and Merlin looks like a ghost before him. And the Keep only has one slender tower, dark against a darker-growing sky, but Arthur is plagued by such a sense of unease that he wants... eh. What Arthur wants is for Merlin to wake, before Arthur has to lead the both of them into an unknown place brimming with, well, the unknown.

Arthur's brain is trying to calculate the chances of them still being on Camelot land. He's tracing those maps in his mind, comparing times and distances – and how long has he actually been riding, with his mind on death and on Merlin, and that sodding horrible child with its bandit plaything-friends? In the end, Arthur doesn't even _know_ how far away from home they are. And if there's only a chance that they're still on his father's land, then there's also a chance that he can simply swagger right in and see that Merlin be treated immediately... and an ever greater chance that he could find himself sitting in a cell somewhere, or starting a war, or, at the very least, stirring up far more diplomatic chaos than he has any desire for. And, after this morning, well – he's never seen much reason for _unnecessary_ stupidity, and the aversion is increasing.

Arthur buys himself time, then. He rests against his haunches, and takes a moment to runs his hands over Merlin's body. Too skinny, he thinks, so as not to dwell on the fact that he's touching Merlin, and that Merlin isn't even awake to consent to it. Merlin ought to eat more, yes; Arthur will make sure of it, in the future, even if he has to ask for twice as much food for himself, and then simply _order_ his stupid servant to help himself, or something. Arthur's hands flit against Merlin's skin, trying to make sure that the fellow isn't perhaps wounded in some way that Arthur hadn't noticed the first time he'd checked. The first time, back at their camp. Back at what had been their camp – an image of a torn, familiar face slips into Arthur's mind, and he shoves it away, and focuses back upon Merlin. Merlin's ribs are knobbly, but he's not exactly _soft_. Lean, perhaps, but with some muscle; no doubt thanks to Arthur having made him actually get off his arse and learn how to do something manly for once.

Arthur frowns, skims his thumbs along Merlin's neck, then leans further back against his heels. He glares at the happily bubbling water, and its happy fucking cheerfulness.

Either Merlin is wounded internally – and there's no discolouration of the skin, which Arthur's eyes have viewed so carefully, to make him think as much – or whatever is ailing Merlin is something that Arthur can't even begin to diagnose. He feels so helpless and, if there's one thing he truly hates, it's the sheer ineptitude of that emotion. He's still his father's son, however, and he can't really do anything but acknowledge what he's looking at, because that much he _does_ know, though he really doesn't want to – it's magic, or some injury caused by the use of it.

And there, ah, gods, there's the real reason Arthur can't afford to be thinking about Merlin. There's the reason, whole and pure, and nothing at all like simple.

Because Arthur, Arthur had _seen_ him. Arthur had seen him _this time_ , he can't help but correct, because, now that he's seen it this once, doesn't that presuppose that he must have missed it a dozen more goes? All those times, where–? And all those times, when–? And Arthur had _seen_ him, there, in the smoky haze of the place where they'd camped. Arthur had seen him, seen Merlin standing there, at the edge of the tree line, his hair still mussed from waking, his shirt all crooked, his hand outstretched and – and that had been the end of the soldiers, or the bandits, or the druids, or whatever it was that they had been. But it had been too late, so painfully late, and that, too, had been the end of Merlin, as well. Or, at least, that had been the temporary pause of Merlin, because Arthur had barely had time to even register what he was seeing, before the woman had turned her gaze, away from Arthur, and it was Merlin who had crumpled to the ground.

Arthur wishes Merlin would wake up, just so that he could shout at him for having kept such a secret for so awfully long.

Besides, having Merlin to rag on always makes Arthur feel a little more in control of situations. He could do with that. You know.

“Merlin,” he complains, just the once, and pushes gently at Merlin's head, making it wobble a little.

Arthur is brushing Merlin's fringe back into place, still feeling helpless, and still buying time, when Merlin opens his eyes very, very slowly, and says, “Arthur?” in a wondering kind of tone.

Something in Arthur's skin flares, dangerously akin to fevered hope.

Only to have Merlin shut his eyes again, and fall soundly back to wherever it is that his silent self has been lurking.

Stubborn, stupid, useless, _idiot_ of a servant.

Useless idiot of a... warlock?

Arthur doesn't even like the sound of the word in his head, but he thinks it's beginning to find its way to his stomach lining, whether he likes it or not; a shudder down the back of his legs.

He does heave a sigh, though, and makes up his mind. After another glare at the merry creek, as though, yes, it really is somehow to blame for this whole mess, Arthur pulls Merlin up into his arms, leaves the horses grazing where they are, and walks the final distance to the unknown Keep.

Camelot land or not, he can't sit here and do _nothing_.

*

Arthur prides himself on being not easily bothered, so he actually flashes the guards a smile, as he comes into sight. The colours on their armour aren't familiar to him, which answers one question, but poses quite a few more; he knows all the colours of the lords and lands surrounding his father's, and this is none of those. His smile doesn't falter, but probably only because he's too busy trying to work out (a) how complete unfamiliarity is even possible and (b) whether it might work in his favour. After all, if nobody recognises him as Prince Arthur, then all he is a traveller in desperate need of a physician's aid.

Theoretically.

The guards don't return his smile, not that he'd expected them to, but they don't actually say anything, either. Instead, they let him pass, and merely tip their chins in the general direction of the Keep's steps, as though he's been expected.

Again, either problematic or brilliant.

Arthur has the strongest urge to put the question to Merlin, and realises, with a jolt, that Merlin's eyes are open again. Both eyes, this time, and they're staring at him in stunned, blue silence.

“Are you... are you _carrying_ me?” Merlin manages, after a few attempts, though his tongue still sounds heavy.

Arthur glares. “I can stop any time, if you're going to whine about it, trust me.”

Merlin shuts up, and blinks repeatedly.

By which point Arthur has reached the steps of the Keep. A woman, so finely dressed as to surely be the Lady of the Keep, is waiting for him by the door, more guards flanked to either side of her. The shadows of a fine blue hood obscure her face, but her hair is as pale as his own, and Arthur's skin twitches at the sight of her; for a moment, he thinks it's Morgause.

It isn't Morgause, but the woman employs the same style of directness, when she raises her veil, meets his eyes, and says, “Arthur Pendragon,” as if that were greeting enough.

Arthur tightens his hold upon Merlin, pulling him in closer against his chest, and replies, stilted, “I believe my Lady has me at a disadvantage, for she knows my name, and I know hers not.”

The woman, however, is already ignoring him. Her swift movement down the stairs is accompanied with a flurry of skirts, and her hand is pale, but bare, as she places it against Merlin's forehead. “Emrys,” she breathes; query, concern, and a complete lack of surprise, all mixed into the same two syllables.

Merlin looks like he's just been caught between a bow and a target's circle, and he actually struggles against Arthur's hold, so much so that Arthur has to help him stand of his own accord or risk falling over himself – not to mention that Arthur really wants to be able to reach for his sword. Merlin grips at Arthur's arm with one hand, though, and says, looking at Arthur, instead of the woman, “I'm really, really not.”

*

The chamber is brighter than it should be. Merlin makes some mumbled comment about the direction that the window must be facing. Arthur simply glares at the sky and declares his currently acute lack of interest in the finer points of architecture.

Arthur has no idea how many hours they’ve been in the Keep for, though he _does_ know that, Lady or not, he wouldn’t turn down the chance to threaten their hostess with a cheese knife.

If he had so much as a cheese knife.

Which he doesn’t.

It isn’t that the Lady isn’t pleasant – if anything, that’s part of the problem – nor even that she has actually done anything but be helpful. Their first hours on her land had been primarily concerned with laying Merlin before a fire, touching damp cloths to his forehead, and nursing him back to health with a great sight more magic than Arthur felt comfortable being witness to. In fact, Arthur had kept his back half turned, as though that could somehow make a difference; couldn’t turn right away, though, for fear the woman would stop healing and start hurting instead.

It doesn’t matter how often Arthur tells himself that, if Merlin has magic, magic cannot be purely evil. It’s still magic, and his father’s voice roars in his ears whenever the woman’s eyes flash golden, whenever her mouth opens and sings unfamiliar words with an aching joy.

It makes him hurt instead, as he stands both away and completely present.

When Merlin was finally up to sitting, they’d moved to a dining hall – smaller than what Arthur was used to, but brighter as well – and Merlin was given place of honour at the Lady’s side.

“My husband is long passed from this realm,” she’d said, when Merlin had started to protest and wave stupidly in Arthur’s direction, “the place is clearly yours, Emrys.”

Arthur had decided that Merlin’s flailing was quite enough for the both of them and had taken the seat, on Merlin’s other side, in silence. Now wasn’t the time to be pulling rank. Now was the time to be studying exits, and studying his own stomach to try and work out whether he could safely put food on top of its worry-lined self. Arthur finds that he can, indeed, eat, and so he does, all the while managing to keep himself silent, and – rather heroically, if he does think so himself – not interrupting whenever the woman treats Merlin as if _he_ were the royalty.

Merlin seems to be too upset by it, anyway, for Arthur to grow upset as well.

When the tables have been cleared, and a girl, who can only be the daughter of the woman, but whose hair is dark, has come out to play the lyre softly, Arthur finally leans around his fumbling manservant and says, as gentlemanly as he can manage, “Your generosity and hospitality are greatly appreciated, Lady Elaine;” for she had introduced herself, to Merlin, eventually.

The Lady smiles. “Not at all, Arthur Pendragon, not at all. The reputation of Camelot precedes you both, after all, and a meal and some music is the least we can offer in great thanks for all your _generous_ aid to my kind over the years. But you must be tired, I’m sure. Can I have a servant show you to your room?”

Arthur wishes he could put his finger on what is bothering him. The magic, yes, and the obvious resentment beneath her gentle statements, is clearly part of it, but there’s something more, something that isn’t so blatant. The woman reminds him far too much of Morgause, at a level deeper than her mere blondeness; it's the unsettling feeling of having caught sight of a shadow in a mirror, only to turn and see someone you weren't expecting had cast it.

*

Arthur knows the distance of their chamber, from length to breadth, and all the feel of its stone floor, for the pacing he's been doing. He knows that the glass of the window opens, but that the bars render it impossible to climb through, even if there weren’t the deadly drop beneath. He knows that the door of the chamber is unlocked, but that he won’t make it more than four paces down the hall, in either direction, without a smiling manservant jostling him back; without a smiling manservant showing him the sharp edge of a knife, should Arthur protest. He knows, furthermore, that, even if he were to make himself a weapon from something in the room, he would never make it through the Keep without being seen; certainly not if he were to try and take Merlin with him.

Merlin is, after all, apparently allowed to wander the Keep, though they are both prisoners.

At least Merlin has the decency to get upset about it; to protest, every time the Lady chides him for suggesting that they should leave, that they must go, that Arthur should be allowed to come too, when the Lady takes Merlin away.

“Time is not passing, within these walls,” she soothes. “Why not simply enjoy what we can offer you? Why not step aside from the demands of destiny, Emrys?”

Arthur despises the sense of helplessness that pummels through him every time Merlin looks at the floor; every time Merlin lets himself be taken away, only to return looking even more damaged.

Arthur despises the fact that he doesn’t even know what hour it is, what day it is, whether the woman has indeed done something twisted to the world beyond the walls, like she claims, or whether anyone is out looking for them – if what the woman has told Merlin is true, they won’t find them here.

Arthur paces, back and forth and sideways, and waits for Merlin to be returned to him.

*

Arthur pretends he can’t see the expression on Merlin’s face, when a servant finally brings him back again. Merlin just stands there, this side of the doorway. He sways on his feet, then walks to the fire, and sits on the low pallet before it. And, sure, yes, Arthur has insisted the boy sleep there for however many nights it’s been, but the complete lack of protest makes something inside of him twinge. Arthur has been telling himself that tonight will be no exception, if only because his wounded thigh still aches at the mere thought of the hard pallet, despite a healer having bound and poulticed it. But he picks the wrong moment to finally meet Merlin’s gaze – Merlin has one of his boots off, toes stretched towards the fire, and his hands rest slack on the other boot, as though it’s simply too much effort—

Arthur’s mind falls still.

He can feel the set of his own face, knows that it’s just daring Merlin to so much as say a single word, as he lurches forwards, squats on his haunches, and clumsily removes Merlin’s second boot.

“What the hell is she doing to you?” Arthur demands, before Merlin can do anything more than blink at him with a sort of sleepy surprise.

Merlin frowns, as though words are more complicated than he’d expected. Then he frowns at his foot, which Arthur realises he is still holding, Merlin’s heel cradled in the palm of his hand. Arthur lets the foot drop, and sits himself down, heavily, on the pallet beside Merlin.

“Well?”

Merlin shrugs. “She’s… suppressing me.”

Arthur’s skin crawls.

Another shrug. “It’s about her sisters.”

The fire crackles. If Arthur looks down, he can see Merlin’s socked feet. There’s a badly darned hole over his big toe; Merlin really is a terrible sewer. He focuses on that, and says, “Morgause? And her sister?”

He still can’t say 'Morgana'. Still can’t say it, not when it makes him think of so many things gone wrong. Not when it makes him think of dead men, of betrayal, of the stolen daughters of blacksmiths. Merlin’s toes clench, and Merlin’s hand lands on Arthur’s knee with a surprised noise. “But I didn't say—”

Arthur snorts. “I know you think I’m stupid, Merlin, but I’m really not.”

He wants to reach down, wants to stop Merlin’s toes from looking so anxious.

Merlin is looking at him, the firelight glinting across his face. Arthur meets his gaze, and there’s nothing but sadness in his eyes. Merlin shrugs, in a crooked kind of way. “Yes. Elaine doesn’t have much magic of her own, can heal very well but little more than that, and her daughter barely has any. She is their sister, though. And she’s kept out of their business, I swear she says she has, and Gaius never mentioned her – I mean, I never heard of her – so I think that much might be true. She says they’ve gone too far, Arthur, says that Morgana has tried something that even Morgause would not do, in her rage about Morgause's injuries – they say that Morgause still has not healed – and now she’s caught in her own magic. That's part of why she has Gwen, it's— Elaine wants to use me to fix things.”

Arthur rubs at his face, decides not to even bother addressing the majority of what Merlin has just declared, especially not about Gwen, least of all Gwen, and says, “With your magic?”

The words come out harsher than he had intended them, and Merlin flinches, as if he's been soundly slapped. Arthur hates the sight of it, much more than he thinks is reasonable, and wants to – to shake him – to _something_ – to stop the fellow from gnawing at his lip like that, as though Arthur's going to whip out a tinder and burn him right here and now. Arthur tries to laugh, just because there's not much else he can do; says, as the laugh falls dead somewhere in the middle of his throat, “Come now, Merlin, I'm not going to – I mean, I saw – Merlin, you _saved my life._.”

Merlin is still staring at him, but now he's looking as though... as though Arthur had just offered him half the kingdom, or his mare's weight in gold, or something.

“Arthur,” he starts, but Arthur waves a hand at him impatiently.

“Merlin, please. Just tell me what this woman wants from us. Was she involved in the… incident? Would you even know?”

 _Incident_ , because 'bloodshed' summons up broken bodies, broken bodies who had been men, men with whom he'd been laughing, only the day before. _Incident_ , because he doesn't want to think about dark haired traitors, spoiled memories.

Too much has changed, and Merlin is folding himself inwards, somehow, is pressing down against the pallet, alternating between shivering and shrugging and shivering some more.

“Merlin,” Arthur repeats. He does reach out and curve his hand down against Merlin's ankle, now.

Merlin leans abruptly sideways, pressing against him and says, in a tone quieter than Arthur is used to hearing from him, “She can't do much herself, and like I said, but this place is spelled; I can't save you here. I can't do anything but take myself away, and that's all she wants, Arthur. She wants me to leave, go as far away as I can, says Morgana might calm, might step back a little, if she couldn't feel me anymore. Because I can feel her, you know, at the edge of my mind, and, now that she knows what she knows, now that she's unlocked so much of herself... and, Arthur, I'm not sure that I don't owe it to her.”

Arthur is starting to wonder whether being stuck in this room has addled his brains. He tightens his hand on Merlin’s foot, says, “You? You owe her? Are you completely stupid?”

Merlin swivels around, out of Arthur’s hold, and glares at him. “I owe all of them, don’t you get it, Arthur? Don’t you see, that if maybe I had just told the truth, if maybe I had just been honest, had shown Morgana that she wasn’t alone – that I was like her, that we were the same – then maybe she wouldn’t have done what she did? Don’t you get that it’s all my fault, Arthur? I _let_ her become what she is!”

Arthur can’t breathe, has to clench his fingers into fists to stop himself punching Merlin in the face. “She made her own choices,” he breathes, very low, barely keeping the rage from his tone. “Was it you, Merlin, who made her do the things she did? To Camelot? To my father? to _Gwen_?”

The air goes out of Merlin, and he slumps back down against Arthur. “No, but Arthur, you know what it’s like to feel responsible. I should have told her what I am. You must understand that.”

Arthur thinks he does, thinks he might, but he knows, too, what would have happened, if Merlin had come out to the Court. If Morgana had let something slip. If his father had found out.

He can see Merlin burning, in his mind's eye, and it makes him sting.

He changes the topic, snaps, “So why am I locked up like a fool?”

Merlin stares at his socks and mumbles something that sounds a lot like, “Insurance.”

*

It takes two days for Arthur to get Merlin to confess that, yes, Arthur is Lady Elaine’s security policy. She trusts Merlin barely more than Arthur trusts her, apparently, and has gotten it into her head that Merlin will only do what she wants him to do if she has Arthur beneath her thumb. Arthur thinks that that is, firstly, completely stupid and, secondly, further proof that she isn’t as dissimilar to her sisters as she would like to think.

It's also very distracting, at the edges of Arthur's worry.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, like he’s talking to an idiot which, well, yeah, he really is. “You don’t honestly think she would just let me go, if you were to simply collaborate…?”

Merlin sits down on the window-seat, and stares defiantly at some vague point beyond Arthur’s shoulder. The colours of the glass flicker across him.

Arthur feels sick. “You really _do_ think she would. Because you're–”

Merlin shrugs. “Yeah.”

“You're that powerful.”

Merlin shrugs a bit more, and Arthur has to focus on breathing, because he has this preposterous urge to just _hug_ the stupid fool.

“Yet she has you trapped here?.”

“It's a... blood magic, I think? I can smell it, it's in the stonework itself. It's not something I know how to break, anyway. It won't lift until I do what she wants. Elaine says Morgana will be using the same spell on Camelot. And that... that you aren't a threat to her, not any more. Not to Morgana, I mean. Not with the deals that she's done, with the darkness she's called up.” It's a whisper; a fear.

“Oh, Merlin,” Arthur mutters.

Merlin leans his head back against the glass, and closes his eyes. His lashes look violet. “Elaine speaks about allies. She speaks about wars, and civil wars. She resents power, Arthur, not just Camelot.” He shifts his head restlessly. Shrugs.

Arthur frowns, thinks about Gwen, thinks— “I’m not letting you go,” he says.

“Someone has to stop her, Arthur. And I don't think I can... I don't think I can kill her. Not after what I've done, not after how I'm to blame.”

Arthur turns away, because he can't look any more. He picks one of the pillows up and shakes it. “There’s no reason for anyone to be using that pallet,” he snaps, as though it were a natural continuation of the previous conversation. “The bed’s big enough for the both of us, and we’re neither of us in a condition for being that close to the cold floor.”

At which point he pulls his shirt over his head, and crawls beneath a blanket.

*

Arthur wakes, in the middle of the night, and Merlin is pressed up against him – carefully curled, even in his sleep, as though to avoid touching on Arthur's healing injury, but the rest of him pushed against Arthur. Arthur wishes he were actually as smart as he likes to tell himself he is, because that would mean he'd have had the common-sense to sleep with something more than just his britches on. Merlin's skin is softer than it ought to be, not soft like a girl’s, but soft like Merlin skin, and warm against Arthur's own. Arthur rolls away as best he can, careful not to wake the younger man, but Merlin simply makes mumbly, offended noises – gods, he even complains when he isn't awake – and actually _reaches a hand out_ and latches onto Arthur.

Arthur tells himself that this is all terribly inappropriate, and he's being awfully put upon, but, in truth, he's too busy trying to remember how to make his lungs work, to actually listen to himself, to actually think about something other than the warmth of Merlin, or the warmth of Gwen, or the fact that one or the other of them is going to end up getting killed because of him.

In the end, Arthur decides that he's much too tired for this shit, and so he rolls back into Merlin's warm touch, choosing to ignore the fact that that leaves Merlin's arm draped over him, and Merlin's breathing, secure and steady, against Arthur's shoulder.

*

In the morning, Merlin is already sitting – sheets pooled at his lap, and a curious expression on his face – when Arthur wakes. Arthur barely lets his eyes shy over Merlin's face before he turns, and gets out of bed, walking across the room, kneeling, and dunking his head into the washbasin. The water is bitterly cold. He dries his face against Merlin's discarded shirt, just because he can.

*

Arthur has been pacing the room, back and forth and forth and back, for hours now, so much so that Merlin has even given up on complaining about it.

The firelight is hot against his skin and it turns his armour – returned by a serving girl, and now piled neatly in a corner, as if to be a symbol of Arthur's utter helplessness – into a pool of reflected flames. Watching Merlin polish it by magic had almost been too much for Arthur, a while ago, when the Lady had brought him back from another day of her gentle, brutal persuasiveness, but at least it had been a distracting from sitting in this fucking room and staring at the walls.

Arthur wants to ask Merlin why he doesn't just _kill_ her, but he already knows the answer.

“Merlin,” Arthur finds himself asking instead, “how many times?”

Merlin doesn't lift his gaze from the firelight, but he moves his lips, silently, almost anxiously, as though he knows what Arthur is asking. Which, all things considered, Arthur is perfectly certain that Merlin _does_.

“I... I don't keep count... sire,” Merlin answers, softly.

Arthur wants to call him out for lying, but is too busying being distracted by the addition of the appellation at the end. Apparently Merlin has looked up _respect_ in a dictionary. Arthur isn't sure that he likes it, though, now that it's actually a possibility, and so he stands up, hands against his thighs, and frowns hugely. What the _fuck_ is he supposed to do, stuck in this bloody Keep, with Merlin, if he can't fight anything to get them out of here, and Merlin can't even properly _talk_ to him?

“Speak, dammit,” Arthur orders; angry, worried. “It's bad enough being trapped here, Merlin, without you giving me your version of the silent treatment on top of it all.”

“The – the what?” Merlin, thank the gods, is actually looking at him properly, now, but there's surprise plastered all over his face. As if he doesn't know that he's been damn well ignoring Arthur for the last few days; as if he isn't aware that he's been treating Arthur as if he were made of baking sugar. “I – I haven't been.” Merlin stands up then, too, and shoves his hands towards the warmth of the fire. He still looks surprised, but there's a trace of annoyance to the set of his shoulders. “I... I didn't think you would exactly want to... I thought you'd prefer if I just shut up, Arthur. All things considered.”

“All things—? All things considered–? _Mer_ lin, were you actually dropped on your _head_ , as a baby?”

Merlin shoots him a sideways, quizzical look, which is more than a little irritating, because he's supposed to take offence at a comment like that, not look vaguely amused.

It's also more than a little irritating that they're even having this conversation. Conversations like this should be illegal. Conversations like this shouldn't even _exist_.

And so Arthur rubs at his forehead, and glares at Merlin with every ounce of his frustration, and then he says, very calmly, and very crossly, “Merlin. I'm not stupid. We both know that I know that you can do, you know, magic and all. You were _polishing my armour with it _, earlier this evening. And it's not as though I haven't had plenty of time to sit around considering the matter, whilst you've been off, palavering with Lady Elaine. So tell me. How many _times_ have you used it, to save my life?__

Merlin stares at him.

Arthur rolls his eyes, and throws up his hands. “Gods above, definitely dropped as a child, then.”

*

For all of the Lady's assurances that time isn't passing like it is in the world beyond, it still feels like it to Arthur. Days turn into weeks, and his feverish anxiety about Gwen, his boiling anger at Morgana, dull down into a steady, beating pressure behind his forehead – no less important, but no longer stopping his ability to think. Days turn into weeks, and it becomes normal to wake up with Merlin close against him, tangled in the sheets, his face half hidden beneath the blankets, or against one of Arthur's arms. Arthur is healed, and could easily move to the pallet, but he refuses to give up a comfortable bed, which is practically the only decent thing about this entire circumstance. And he can't kick Merlin out when he comes back, day after day, looking mentally beaten.

That, and there's a tiny voice in the back of Arthur's head insinuating that he likes to wake up with Merlin wrapped around him. He doesn't know.

He can't deny that something has changed, though.

Merlin bruises Arthur's arm as he sleeps, and rolls with nightmares.

And Arthur simply refuses, day after day after day, to give permission to Merlin to let himself be taken; refuses to let Merlin be martyr, when Arthur can't so much as walk down a bloody hallway.

“It's bad enough,” he snaps, “that I don't know where Gwen is.”

*

Arthur is becoming increasingly convinced that their chamber is growing smaller every time Elaine brings Merlin back, a little paler, a little more tired.

This time, Merlin walks straight to the windowsill and just sits there, looking thoroughly exhausted, and Arthur really wants to shake him – some things, apparently, don't change, despite the world crumpling in all forms of illogical ways – but, instead, he walks over and sits down beside the fellow. Merlin shifts a little, to give him space, dragging one of his knees up closer to his face, and resting his chin upon it.

“I don't understand,” he says, after a while, softly, softly, his eyes seeking out Arthur's, from beneath dark, scraggly hair, “why it is that you won't just let me... you know. She'd let you go. You could try to take care of Camelot. You could do anything.”

All things considered – such as the fact, for a start, that Merlin spends most of the day away from Arthur, where it's not exactly as though Arthur could _stop_ him, and since when does Merlin actually listen to a word Arthur says anyway, and does Merlin have any idea how fucking _preposterous_ this has all become – Arthur is pretty sure that he doesn't really want to answer that. He actually gets so far as a grim, gruff, “Because, Merlin...” and then he just can't any more. He just _can't_ , and, so, instead of saying all of the words that he's been hearing in his head for days and days on end now, he leans in with a rush of air, puts his hands to either side of Merlin's tired face, and kisses him.

Firmly.

Kisses him, until the blur of frustration and helplessness and tumbled emotions pull away long enough for him to realise that Merlin isn't moving, oh gods, Merlin isn't moving. Merlin isn't doing anything, isn't kissing him back, isn't—Arthur pulls back, dropping his hands away from Arthur's face as if they'd been stung, and just looks at Merlin with three shades of horror and a bucketful of regret. Merlin, for his part, is staring right back, wide-eyed. There's more emotion on his face than Arthur has seen in days, yes, but it's pure, blind _astonishment_.

Arthur tries to tell himself, waveringly, that that's a good few steps better than active disgust.

Arthur stands back up, stately, glances away, and then says, carefully, “I apologise, Merlin. That was presumptuous, and I will never let such a thi—”

Whatever Arthur was never going to let? Well, it doesn't really matter, because suddenly Merlin is on his knees on the window seat, moving so fast that he wobbles and almost falls off, and he has his hands around Arthur's neck and is just clinging to him. Not kissing him, not saying a word, but _clinging_ , as if his very life depends up on it, his face pressed in against Arthur's neck, and his whole body shaking.

Arthur doesn't need to be asked, to wrap his hands around the shaking man, and to step nearer to him, leaving Merlin less perilously on the edge of the seat, and pressing them closer together.

The spill of colours through the glass seems even brighter than usual, some part of Arthur's brain is thinking, but most of it is simply focussing upon the _touch scent sound oh_ of Merlin in his arms, like this.

Everything has changed.

After a while, he realises that Merlin has grown steady, and Merlin seems to know that Arthur has noticed, because Merlin tilts his head, just a little, and his lips move against Arthur's neck. Arthur steadies himself too, his hands gripping a little tighter against the blue at the back of Merlin's shirt. Merlin must feel it – well, of course Merlin feels it, Merlin's wearing it, that's Merlin's back that Arthur's hands are pressed against – because Merlin moves just a little more, and mouths his way up Arthur's neck a little. Just as Arthur realises that he's on the edge of sighing like a milkmaid, Merlin pulls back, slowly, very slowly, and gazes at Arthur through darkened eyes, as if he'd been crying just now; as if Arthur is the only thing that he understand in the whole world, but the one thing he can never comprehend. “You...” he says, and there's wonder in his voice, and Arthur still kind of wants to shake him, but mostly he just wants to hold him, protect him, grip him tight forever, just like he is right now.

“Me,” says Arthur, because it makes sense at the time, and because a grin blooms across Merlin's face in response, that grin that Arthur has wondered, so often, whether it were meant for him alone, and Merlin lets his hands slide up into Arthur's hair, almost tentatively, as if he still doesn't quite believe, but as if he very much wants to.

“You don't ever have to apologise for _that_ ,” Merlin breathes out, and then it's Merlin leaning in to kiss Arthur, and grinning against Arthur's mouth, and speaking Arthur's name against Arthur's lips, and Merlin tugs at his hair and pushes himself even closer, as if now he's the one who wants to crawl beneath Arthur's skin and make a home there. Arthur is trying very hard to convince himself that it wouldn't be unpropitious to simply pick Merlin up and carry him to the bed – that bed! that fucking bed, and all those nights of feeling Merlin's breath against him, all those mornings when he simply could have turned, and – when Merlin shifts his kiss to the corner of Arthur's mouth, whispers, “You are the biggest prat in the world, Arthur Pendragon, you do know that, right?”

And Arthur opens his mouth to make some loud protest, but his laughter fades, as Merlin touches him, once, against the face, ever so softly—

—and vanishes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by [Karnivool's cover of Sleeping Satellite](http://youtu.be/cZLliumYrQ8). (Thank you, Vyadh.)
> 
> Also, this story will be the death of me. I keep posting the wrong things, somehow. Forgive me if your inbox is getting dead links because of my stupidity. If there are too many errors in this, it's because, frankly, if I don't go to bed now, I'm not going to make it to work tomorrow. D:

The biggest insult is that Lady Elaine does, indeed, let Arthur go. Just like she'd promised. Just like he meant nothing at all.

*

Camelot is wrapped in a fine veil of cold, when Arthur makes his way through the walls. He feels tired, too tired to deal with the looks that the guards fling upon him as they realise, yes, exactly who it is that's riding in. They must see something in his face that he hadn't realised he was capable of, however, because they bite their mouths closed, stepping back as if he were his father, and wait until he's least a dozen feet away before falling back in hissing whispers.

Which is when Arthur begins to get the impression that Elaine might have been lying, about time not passing beyond her Keep.

Until he remembers that, if Elaine _were_ telling the truth, these same guards would have seen him leave the city only a day beforehand, with a whole retinue of men. And now here he is, worn and exhausted, and completely on his own.

Ah. Either way, _ah_.

Arthur tries not to meet anyone's eyes, as he rides through the lower town, but it's hard to battle between that, and his usual habit of looking at people squarely. He finds himself doing a weird mix of both, as though he's staring, and shying away, all at the same time.

At the castle, a boy runs forwards, to help him dismount, and all he feels is an empty pang at the sheer _efficiency_ of he lad – barely more than a child, but clearly eminently better qualified for these things than Merlin ever was. Arthur doesn't speak to the boy, and the boy doesn't expect him to; he does make a vague motion of his head, though, to acknowledge a job well done. Arthur wonders when, exactly, it was, that he'd begun to feel obligated to do that kind of thing.

Somewhere, at the depths of his stomach, he knows that that, too, is Merlin's fault.

Or Merlin's gift.

*

The walk to the throne room seems longer than it has in years; since the time when he'd been fourteen, and had been caught in a compromising position with a maid from the laundry – not having his way with her, it ought to be understood, but simply sitting with her in the sunshine, reading her snippets from a book, and basking in the warmth of her spring-coloured affections – and his father had berated him for hours on end. That time, he hadn't even yelled, which somehow made it worse, but had been cold, and calm, and instant that he didn't care what Arthur did in his spare time _except_ that it was never, ever to have a negative impact upon his position; upon his name as a Pendragon. Arthur hadn't been able to look at a girl for months.

The walk, this time, though – he feels the same kind of sick. The same kind of ache in his guts, magnified by one-and-twenty. The uneasiness that comes with knowing that he likes someone, _likes_ someone, considerably more than his father would ever have permitted, and considerably more than his father would ever have allowed. Things that would, indeed, damage his good name.

It's made even longer by the knowledge of what his father has become. The weak man he'd last seen, barely capable of holding himself together, let alone his kingdom.

Except, when Arthur reaches the throne room, his father is there, alive, and brilliant, and looking healthier than Arthur has seen in years.

Is looking adoringly, too, at Morgana, who is seated on a throne beside his.

Seated there, as though she belongs; as though Camelot is hers now, whether his father is present or not; bile rises in Arthur's throat as he thinks that perhaps, perhaps, perhaps his father is only even there because it amuses her.

A red-haired girl, with a pretty smattering of freckles across her face, sits on the steps at Morgana's feet.

Gwen is nowhere to be seen.

Arthur's mouth is dry, as he requests audience. He wonders whether everyone in the city is under her spell, like Elaine had believed. He wonders how much time has passed, in reality, and how he can find out without sharing too much. He wonders why this spell has no hold on him, unlike Elaine's; he feels a flash of the memory of Merlin's lips upon his mouth, so warm and soft.

He meets Morgana's gaze as though he, too, can see nothing remotely odd about her presence.

He focuses on the fact that his father's face is full of colour, on the fact that his father seems to have returned to the man Arthur remembers from his childhood, and from Morgana's; the man of steel and laughter, who'd taught them how to hold a sword.

The conversation is long and harsh, Uther twitching whenever Arthur attempts to direct it back towards Merlin. Arthur talks about bandits, says nothing of Morgana or magic. Arthur talks about good men lost, and how it is his own fault (everything is your own fault, when you are Crown Prince, and the knowledge clings to the fourth rib down on Arthur's left side).

Uther is angry, is staring at him with a gaze sharp enough to make internal organs bleed.

Arthur straightens his shoulders, sets his legs boldly, and says, “Father, I seek your permission to go and—”

Uther waves a hand impatiently. “Do not so much as even _ask_ for leave to go and find your _manservant_ , Arthur.”

Arthur is starting to feel light-headed.

Morgana, who still hasn't said a single word, is smiling at him charmingly. She plays her fingers, absently, intimately, through the hair of the girl at her feet.

“I know what he meant to you,” Uther continues, “perhaps better than you yourself know. I've seen the way that you— I've seen, Arthur, and I know that you aren't thinking with your head right now. You need to _let this go_.”

Arthur grinds his teeth together; can feel his fists bunching at his sides, and has to consciously force them to relax. “Father—”

“Arthur. Do not make me restrain you.”

“Restrain him?” Morgana's voice purrs, “Surely such wanton loss of life, such gambling away of your men, deserves more than restraint? Should he not be punished, my King? Punished, to show our people what happens to those who cannot even save their own soldiers?”

Arthur's head jerks up, and he knows he has few choices here, knows that Morgana could see him dead with a click of her fingers, knows that she would probably like it, knows that, in his brain, but the rest of him is refusing to believe it, is refusing to see that there is anything here but the _right thing to do_ , and the right thing is to _save Merlin_ , because _Merlin had saved him_ , because Merlin had saved him _how many times_ , and because Merlin is—

“Father,” Arthur says again, setting his shoulders with determination. “This is something that I must—”

Uther barks an order, and the guards are around him, men watching with shadowed faces, and Arthur suddenly realises how he must seem to all those watching; the Crown Prince, the heir to Camelot, standing here, having just announced the death of good men and fellow knights, and demanding only that he go and save a servant.

He can see the shadow of dungeons and horrors in the beautiful lines of Morgana's face.

The repulsion of it tears at him, but he can't just, he can't—

“Father!” Arthur shouts, as he's manhandled towards the door, “You have misunderstood completely! You need to send me after Merlin because I'm the only one he'll listen to, trust even, enough to have him brought back here and _burnt_.”

Every inch of Uther's face freezes, Morgana's eyes go dark, and, within moments, the guards are dismissed and Arthur is standing before his father, alone in the throne room, feeling shivers starting in his wrists, and his father saying, “Tell me what you have concealed.”

Arthur swallows his soul, and does.

*

Arthur is painfully aware that, had you told him, not all that very long ago, that he would be actively making use of magic's results, he would have laughed in your face. No, laughing would have been a mild response; he'd probably have had you beaten for that level of impertinence. And, yet, here he is. Hate of magic has gotten him into this mess, he thinks, and perhaps hate of it will be what can get him out; hate of more than just magic, though, as Morgana had smiled at Uther's instructions.

The corridors in Camelot are darker than Arthur remembers; more fraught with twists and shadows, as he makes his way to the dungeons. He goes via the kitchens, where at least the fires are bright, and the oldest of the cooks still tweaks his cheek and brings him food to carry on his way.

He might be technically free, might be technically the son of the King, might be technically have been ordered to be gone by first light – _hunt down the wizard and bring him before me, before the throne, before the kingdom, so that they might know the weight of my anger_ – but Arthur doesn't doubt that that freedom is anything more than tenuous. Doesn't doubt, too, that, if he's found trying to find Gwen, it will crumple like a paper swan.

It's Gaius, who makes him jump. Gaius, with his hand grasping the centre of Arthur's shirt, and his face red with anger. “Do you have _any_ idea what you have _done?”_ the physician demands, a hiss of outrage, all shaking hands and indignation. “Do you have any idea what the king will do to him when you bring him back? What _Morgana_ will do? The very bricks beneath our feet are under her spell, making the people who walk upon them unable to see the truth before their very eyes. It's been mere days, but you wouldn't know it!”

Arthur knows, from the tone of Gaius's voice, from the things that Merlin had let slip, that Gaius must have known all along, about Merlin's magic. Arthur knows, too – though Arthur can't understand why – that Gaius is somehow not under Morgana's spell, and Arthur wonders whether maybe there's more to Gaius than he'd ever suspected. It sparks hope into him, sparks a buzzing of joy that maybe he isn't the only one who can see things as they are.

“Gwen,” he demands, “Where's Gwen?”

She must be here, she must, because it's enough to have to try and save his father, enough to try and find Merlin, without trying to find Gwen as well.

Gaius studies him, intently, as though he can read truths off of peoples' faces.

Perhaps he can.

Gaius says, after a moment, still cross, but significantly quieter, “Do you have some kind of plan, Prince Arthur, or are you simply thinking of storming down there, waving your sword around, and having all manner of alarms raised before you can so much as get back up the stairs again?”

“She is in the dungeons, then?” he breathes.

It makes him sick, to think of it happening again. To think of here there, again. Unjustly, _again_.

Gaius sighs, and leads him in the opposite direction.

*

The cave is large. No, the cave is immense, and Arthur tries to work out how it is that he's never known that such a thing was here; tries to work how it's even structurally sound, seeing as it seems to be largely beneath Camelot itself. The flames of his torch, of the torch in Gaius's hand, flickers against the walls with the air of their own breath, and the air coming in from somewhere in the distant roof of the cave itself. Their voices echo, when they speak.

There's a fire, on the lip of a drop that seems to fall into darkness, men dark silhouettes in the light of it. One of them stands, sharply, then visibly relaxes when he recognises Gaius.

Arthur, widens his eyes and asks, “Gwaine?”

Gwaine grips him in a brief hug, slapping Arthur on the back, and says, “Finally found your way back, then?”

His delight falters, though, as he looks beyond Arthur, and Arthur realises that his knight is looking for Merlin.

“He's not here,” Arthur answers, to the unasked question. “I'm going to find him but, right now, he's not here.”

“ _We_ ,” corrects Gwaine. “But I presume you want to get Gwen first?”

The heat of relief floods into Arthur's face.

Gwaine pulls out his sword and says, “If you'd taken a few more hours, we'd have been doing it on our own. Sure nobody'll complain about the extra set of hands, though.”

The other men have risen to their feet, now; Leon, and Dinadan. The only reason they hadn't been with Arthur, when he'd gone hunting, was because he'd needed someone he could trust to watch Camelot... though fat lot of good that had done him.

Something of his rage, mixed with his relief, must show on his face, because Leon rubs at his neck and says, “There was little we could have done, Sire. We too were under her thrall, until Gaius helped us with his...”

There's a pause, sticky and awkward like honey in winter.

Arthur clears his throat, looks at Gaius, then at Gwaine and the knights, and says, “About that–”

But Gaius raises his hand before Arthur can finish, and declares, “Nothing but a potion, Sire. I'm afraid, whatever you may think of me, it is nothing but old fashioned medicine that has kept our heads clear. For that matter, it is nothing but old fashioned ignorance that has kept your men safe; Morgana, it appears, does not consider things with the detail that I had imagined she would. Our focus now, however, must be upon Guinevere. She is, as you imagined, in the dungeons. Getting to her will be considerably more difficult than getting here; getting her out of there will be even harder. Now, I can do my best to see that as much of the castle is asleep as possible–” here he looks at Arthur again, as though he's seeing too much of Uther before him, and adds, with emphasis, “via a sleeping draught that I shall put into their dinner. The rest will be up to you lads, and I expect you long gone, and not a moment of hesitation on my behalf.”

Arthur doesn't like the sound of that. Arthur knows what Merlin would say, if something were to happen to the man who is, clearly, his father-figure.

Which is probably why Gaius meets his gaze directly and says, “The only thing that matters now is you, Sire, and this kingdom. That, and Merlin. You find him, because you're going to need him if you ever want to sit on that throne. Do you understand me?”

“I'll find him regardless,” says Arthur, and hopes it was quiet enough for only himself to hear.

*

Gwaine, unsurprisingly, is considerably better at planning underhanded break-ins than Arthur is, and apparently Arthur has grown up enough in the last few months to simply step back and let him take the upper hand. In the castle above them, the noise of the court dies down to the hum of slumber, and Arthur can only pray that all Morgana is amongst the sleepers. He doesn't like the silence, though; it reminds him too much of the last time the castle had been set to doze against its will.

Gwaine ushers him along, though – Leon and Dinadan already waiting beyond the city's walls with packs and horses and their names marked in chalk as having gone with the Prince to find the traitor – Gwaine's hand at Arthur's shoulder. Arthur doesn't need it, but he doesn't shake the man away, either. He's too grateful of the knowledge that he was here, he was here for Gwen, even when he himself was not.

It's Gwaine, too, who picks the lock on her cell.

It's Arthur, though, who steps in to brush the hair from her dirty face, to wipe the blood from the corners of her lips. Arthur, who scoops her into his arms, just her, and the rag of a blanket she's huddled in, and carries her from the city. Arthur, who holds her to him, as they ride away from all his life has ever been.

*

(“Do you remember, one time, following a light to safety?” Gaius had asked Arthur, before he'd gone to put the court to sleep.

Arthur hadn't answered, hadn't let his face betray the feeling of _oh_ that had run through his body; the feeling of _oh, that had been Merlin, and that, and that._

Instead, Arthur takes the small vial that Gaius proffers him, a tiny glass thing stoppered with a cork and glowing, only very dully, in the shelter of his hand. “Will it glow the brighter, the closer to Merlin I am? Will it lead me to him?”

“It will lead you to help,” is all Gaius had answered.)

*

When they reach forest dense enough to be hidden from the city walls, Arthur hushes his horse to a halt, and lays Gwen carefully against the red of his cloak.

Gwaine lights a torch to better see her by.

“Let me,” says Dinadan, and Arthur does, because he's seen Dinadan clean the wounded before, and he knows his touch is gentler than Arthur's could ever be.

Arthur watches, as Dinadan takes the flask that Leon offers him, takes a clean cloth from his side-bag, and begins to dab at the marks on Gwen's face.

For Gwen alone, Arthur would like to turn back, turn back to Camelot, and demand to know what the hell Morgana is thinking. Demand to know when it was that she had lost her mind; when it was that she had lost her heart. She and Gwen had been together for so long, for so many years, had been friends, had been, he had thought at least once, something more than that, and now; now, Arthur isn't sure he'll ever be able to forgive her, not for this, not for the line that racks up the side of Gwen's face.

“It'll likely scar, Sire,” Dinadan says, softly, when he glances up and sees the direction of Arthur's gaze.

Arthur knows it.

“You can't follow me,” he says, turning respectfully as Dinadan undoes the front of Gwen's dress, the better to see her wounds. “When she knows, she won't let you return.”

At some level, too, it is an act of treason, what they are doing. What Arthur is planning. They'd spoken long enough, before rescuing Gwen, for his knights to know that; to know that Arthur has no intention of having Merlin brought back to be killed but, instead, plans to bring him back to see Morgana and, if need be, his father beneath her power, ousted from the throne. Arthur knows it, and they know it.

“I would never ask you to follow me, the path I'm heading down,” Arthur continues, and feels pathetic. He feels bile in his throat, at the idea of speaking out loud that which he has been trying to ignore in his head. He rubs at his face, sick and uneasy. But he's made his choice now, somehow, some-fucking-how, and the only way he's going to cope is if he _doesn't consider it too long_ , so he forges onwards, trying not to hear the shake in his own voice, “I would never ask you to do what I am planning on doing. I can only say again, I have no intention of returning Merlin to my father. I wish to save him, not hasten his demise.”

The forest whispers around them. The horses shift restlessly, making metal and leather rub against each other. Dinadan's motions sound of water and cloth.

Absurdly, considering everything else that is happening around him, Arthur finds himself glad of he knowledge that Dinadan will likely not appreciate whatever amount of Gwen's bosom it is that he's currently seeing.

Before him, Leon clears his throat slightly. “I won't say that it was common knowledge, sire, but many of us have suspected that your affections might be somewhat... well... that is to say...”

Arthur blinks. Then, with an annoyed snort, grumbles, “It's because he's such an awful specimen of a manservant, yet I put up with him anyway, isn't it?”

Behind his back, Dinadan makes an amused sound, and even Leon fights a grin. Arthur just gives up and laughs. It feels good, to laugh; feels good, to feel the sound of it bubble through him, and clean away a fraction of the horror and stress that's been weighing on his shoulders. It feels good, to not think about Morgana for a moment; feels good, to know that the spell is indeed over the castle, like Gaius had thought.

He can hear the soft swish of the laces of Gwen's dress being re-tied, and so he turns back around. “Will she be alright?” he asks.

He wants to kneel again, wants to put his hand against her face and apologise for letting her be taken. Apologise, for whatever it is that has been done to her in his absence.

Dinadan bites at his lip. “She needs clean clothes. She would benefit from a clean bed. When the consciousness rises back into her, she is going to be in a great deal of pain. But Gwen is strong, my Lord, and I think she will be simply glad to see friendly faces around her. So long as nothing inside has been damaged, I am sure she will rally.”

With Gwaine's help, Arthur takes her before him again, arms wrapped across her lolling body as gently as he can, her head resting back against his chest at what he hopes isn't too awkward an angle. Together, they urge their horses forwards, dropping into single file as they choose ever less-beaten paths

They urge their horses forwards, dropping into single file as the path becomes narrower. Arthur holds the vial in one hand as he leads them onwards, motioning his mare with his thighs rather than with the reins. As it shimmers in the black of the trees, he can feel, rather than see, Leon stiffen. “Is the... magic... going to be a problem?” he asks.

It's Dinadan who says, simply, “My godmother was burnt in the public square when I was eight years old.”

And Arthur thinks that that explains a lot, about Dinadan, and he also think that that, in the end, is that.

Leon says, after some seconds, “Sire, we are your men.”

It's a _moment_ , and Arthur knows it; it's a moment where he's stepped from loyal son to something much more problematic; a moment where he's seen loyalty directed at him and him alone, unadulterated with pretence or other duties. There's nothing Arthur can say that would cover the extremes of what he's feeling, so he simply nods gravely and, with a nudge of his knees, urges them forwards faster.

Gwen is cold in his arms.

Above them, somewhere beyond the trees, the night curls towards morning.

*

And so here he is – here they are – following a magical light through the depths of the forest. Mostly they have fallen silent, though the three men, behind him, still talk occasionally, usually about something they've seen, or a noise they've heard, and, once, remarkably – and which Arthur pretends not to hear – a teasing comment about how Arthur will balance his manservant and his woman, when he has the both of them with him.

Actually, that's something he's been doing a good deal of not thinking about.

When they rest, he stares at the trees.

Arthur Pendragon has never made a choice like this; never chosen _completely_ against his father. And, yes, his father may not currently be in his own mind at all. And, yes, technically Arthur is choosing to stand against Morgana. Whichever way you slice it, however, Arthur is standing on the side of magic and that, he knows, without a doubt, without a question, is the cardinal sin he could commit against his father.

His father will, should his father ever stand before him again, as his father, see it as treason of the highest kind.

Arthur would throw up, but he can't be weak in front of Leon and Dinadan, in front of Gwaine, not now that they've thrown in their lot with him. He's glad that they're here, it's true, but he still knows the price that they've paid; the least he can do is be as worth the cost as he can manage.

He actually hesitates, when they reach the river that splits Camelot from the neighbouring land, which the light is leading them into, one hand resting automatically upon the hilt of his sword, the other cradling a still-unconscious Gwen to his chest, and stares up at the greying sky visible, so easily, above the water.

His duty, he knows, is to his father, to Camelot, to the people.

His duty, he knows, is all of those things, but he can't walk away from the fact that, just possibly, going against them is the only way to save them.

Can't walk away from Merlin, either. Not when Merlin has saved his life so many times, not when Merlin has, yet again, given up everything for Arthur. Not when Merlin grins the way he does, so stupid and wonderful. Not when Merlin is—

Not when he loves him.

The metal of the sword's hilt is making his hand ache, and Arthur can feel his lungs skipping breaths.

There, he's admitted it.

Because he does. He doesn't just fancy the stupid moron, doesn't just want to bend him over the table of a morning, doesn't want to press him back against a wall and work his tongue against those preposterous ears; no, he fucking _loves_ Merlin.

And that's just so wrong, so hysterically hilarious, on so many varied levels – but it's also incredibly reassuring. He feels warmth, golden like the colour Merlin's eyes had turned, pool and slip in his stomach, and the urge to throw up is replaced by a calm so peaceful that it probably ought to be unsettling in its own right. He loves him.

Fine.

He takes his hand from the hilt, and brushes the hair from Gwen's closed eyes.

“I think it would be best if we were to leave the horses here, sire,” Leon is saying, scruffy head inclined to study the light which, in the last two days, he and the others seem to have easily adapted to.

Arthur shakes himself, considers the path before them and says, “Unfortunately, I think you're right.” Then, “You're allowed to call me Arthur, you know.”

“Of course, Sire,” is all Leon says to that.

Arthur rolls his eyes, passes Gwen down to Gwaine, dismounts himself, and begins to unpack things from his saddle bags. He works one of them into a satchel that he can carry easily, whilst still leaving his hands free for important things, like fighting, or holding Gwen, though gods only know how he would manage the two at the same time. He runs his fingers thoughtfully against his crossbow, then says, without turning around, “It might also be time for us to leave our colours.”

He can actually _hear_ Dinadan inhaling, from quite some feet away.

Gwaine's glance is one of sympathy.

They remove the parts of their outfits that mark them as from Camelot in silence, and then Arthur, who is half inclined to put them with the horses, simply throws his in the river, and watches it sink, and glint, or float away cheerily, depending on the individual item's nature. Red and yellow are striking against the clear of a forest stream. The water is cold, when he crouches and drinks, and he knows, from that alone, how close they are to reaching the mountains.

It's Leon who slaps the horses and sends them in the direction of home. Arthur has no doubt that they'll get there, either, because the knights' horses are very well trained; even if some bandit picks them up mid-journey, they'll probably just bite or break free.

Why he cares, of course, is an utter bloody mystery.

“Well then,” he says, when the sound of hoofs is out of hearing. He looks at his knights, and the knights look at him. Without the obvious wealth of their horses, and without Camelot colours, and with the wear of poorly-planned travel upon them, they look more like three simple travellers – apart from their weapons.

He looks at Gwen, half resting in Gwaine's arms, half against Dinadan, her hair in need of a wash and her clothes grubby.

Frustrated with the universe in general, and wishing they had had the sense to make Gaius travel with them, Arthur walks across a fallen tree, over the river, and out of Camelot.

*

How many hours of his life, Arthur has spent in the woods, he doesn't even know. Just hunting alone probably adds up to _months_ , if you put it together, and that's not even counting patrols, and the occasional pilgrimage, and the back and forthing when he was a young child and mostly living in Sir Kay's household, as part of his education. But he's never felt unsettled, like he is, here, and now, the deeper they move into foreign land, and the closer to the mountains they become. The sky seems to have been blacked out all together, and the roots are thick and knotted across the ground, making him glad that Leon had suggested they leave the horses where they had. Arthur finds himself picking every step carefully, every motion feeling almost dangerous, as though he's half expecting something to burst into life and wrap itself around him and that, then, would be the end of of that. Nothing does burst into life, nor even burst from the underbrush, but the forest is significantly too silent, hushed so hush that it's beyond the silence of the grave – for even graves have bugs and worms and creaking earth – but this, this is the silence of death itself, and the air is far too damp, damp like the mould that crawls the walls at the wrong time of the year when the servants have been slack in their duties. Leon and Dinadan don't make a noise. Even Gwaine is quiet. Arthur doesn't like it, and his lungs don't like it, and his whole body doesn't like it; the way the feeling of it shudders through him.

His foot tangles in roots, and a panicked noise slips from his throat. He slowly disentangles himself, and just stares there a moment, staring at this weird space around him.

Leon pulls out the light, and it's pulsing purple now. “Not much further,” he says, barely above a whisper, his eyes wide and more than a little anxious.

Merlin's grin slides across Arthur's mind, and he pulls his sword from its scabbard, and surges forwards.

*

Arthur couldn't say, exactly, how he knows the exactly moment he's reached the right place, but something about the sudden field he stumbles into – and, you know, the very large dragon upon a pile of stones – rather makes him think that that, yes, is exactly where they are supposed to be. He goes very still, once he's finished with the Merlin-esque stumbling, and but doesn't lower his sword one jot, holding his hand out to motion the knights to stay behind him.

There is a very loud stretch of silence. Until Arthur breaks it.

“...is that the _Dragon_?” Arthur demands, fury rolling inside of him. “ _The_ Dragon? The Dragon that nearly _destroyed_ Camelot?”

The dragon looks at him archly. “Kingling,” it says, as though that were a perfectly normal form of greeting.

Arthur does not stumble backwards, but possibly only because he's temporarily forgotten how his legs work. He's fought this fucking dragon. He's fought it, and won... hadn't he? Hadn't he? He'd—

“Merlin,” he breathes, and it's as though this is just one too many revelation, as though he really just can't deal with this particular straw on this particular camel's back. “It was Merlin, wasn't it? It was Merlin who – who – who did whatever it was that he did, to make you leave, wasn't it? It had nothing at all to do with me, with us, am I correct?”

The Dragon raises the ridge above his right eye, positively coyly, and actually smirks.

“IT _WAS_ MERLIN,” Arthur roars.

He's not even angry at the dragon, not even angry at Merlin, it's just the everything. Everything.

The Dragon laughs, low, and amused, and clearly utterly delighted.

“Ah, young Pendragon,” it intones, happy as a cat that didn't only get the cream, but bonus mouse eyeballs as well. “Am I correct in deducing that you are now _aware_ , then?”

“Is it somehow _your fault?_ ” Arthur demands. “Because I've seen – seen – seen it done before, but never quite like that, never with the glowing – the, the gold – and is that somehow _because of you?_ ”

A distant part of Arthur's brain can actually hear what nonsense his mouth is spewing, and is beating him repeatedly with a mental cudgel because, really, that's just about the biggest load of horse shite ever uttered in broad daylight. Whatever Merlin might be, Arthur knows that you can't _catch_ magic. That would be as preposterous as suggesting that you could somehow _catch_ the inclinations regarding whom you're going to want to shag – as if Arthur, for example, somehow likes boys as well as girls, simply because his swordmaster had preferred the family's Latin tutor over the wet-nurse. And so he knows, yes, that he's making a complete and utter ass of himself.

But it's as though he just can't stop.

He's really glad that he can't see his knights' faces.

Is almost glad that Gwen is unconscious.

Except, Gwen.

Arthur shakes his head, as though to clear it, and takes a step forwards. “Do you have magic? Can you heal her?” He knows the dragon will already have noticed the girl slumped between two of his men. He doesn't think it will be stupid enough to require specifications. Belatedly, he adds, though he dislikes the word, “Please?”

The dragon looks at him, long and hard and deeply. Far too deeply, and Arthur would almost like to step backwards. He takes another step forwards, instead, to counter the urge. Adds, “Do you know Merlin at all well? Gwen is important to him.”

A sigh fills the entire clearing, warming the air and making Arthur's face flush with the change of temperature. “That much,” mutters the dragon, almost resignedly, “I do know, young Pendragon. Bring her closer?”

Leon's face says he thinks this is a really bad idea, but all Arthur knows is that the light is glowing brighter than it ever has, and the only thing here, the only thing in this clearing, is the damn Dragon. The damn Dragon, which he is now convinced has something to do with Merlin. Arthur turns and takes Gwen from Leon, pulls her into his arms and walks forwards, holding her like a husband carrying his wife across the threshold. Even with the bruises on her face, even with the scar that's going to mark her, her beauty is like none he's ever seen.

“I won't hurt her,” says the dragon, softer, now, as Arthur stands before him, close enough to feel the air of his regular breathing – in, out; in, out – ruffle the hair on his forehead.

“If you do,” says Arthur, before he can stop himself, “I _will_ find a way to kill you. Myself, this time.”

The dragon laughs, deep and disturbing, and then speaks, speaks words that make Arthur's insides feel like gold, and molten iron, and things that he couldn't name if he tried to. Before he can change his mind and reach for his sword, though, Gwen is stirring in his arms.

She opens her eyes. Closes them. Opens them again, and raises a hand, slowly and carefully, and places it against Arthur's cheek. “Hello,” she says, and he can hear the relief of the knights behind him, can hear the laugh of the dragon, but none of those sounds are as important as the sound of her voice, steady and fine and the same as it's ever been.

“Hello,” he answers, and kisses her without so much as thinking.

*

They don't talk, about the things that Morgana did to Gwen. They don't talk, about the way that time had passed for her, there in the dungeons. They don't talk about the bruises, inside and out. They don't talk at all, not about that, not about things that cannot be changed.

They talk, instead, about Merlin, and about Camelot, and how to fix the future.

Gwen's hand is warm in Arthur's, in the light of the campfire.

*

“You never answered my question,” Arthur says, the next morning. The dragon has been pretending to sleep, probably tired of their breakfasting noises. “Tell me frankly, now. Was it Merlin who sent you away, that time?”

The dragon opens his eyes, shakes himself, and snorts. “Yes, kingling, it was, indeed, Merlin. You should know, your servant is not merely a warlock, but also a dragonlord.”

“Right,” says Arthur, storing that piece of information away as either something else he would have to thoroughly thrash Merlin for, or else kiss him to pieces because of. “And why do I get the impression that you are so very familiar with me? I can't just be because you tried to burn the fuck – beg your pardon, Gwen – out of Camelot, either.”

“You and Merlin are the two sides of the same coin, young Pendragon.”

Arthur splutters, which is probably his body's way of trying to pretend that his breath hadn't just hitched in a not entirely unpleasant manner. The Dragon's words come to rest somewhere around Arthur's diaphragm and he knows, he _knows_ that, had he heard those words even a few weeks ago, he would simply have stared a little. But now that he's held Merlin in his hands, has felt Merlin cling to him, has felt Merlin's lips against his own – hell, now that Merlin had called him a prat and Arthur had heard it as nothing more than an endearment – now that Arthur has experienced those things, he just stands here.

And splutters.

Gwen puts her hand against his back, calming.

“This magic of yours,” says Gwaine. “And the fact that Merlin is a dragonlord. Can you put them together? Can you bring him to us?”

Arthur gazes at the Dragon speculatively. The Dragon gazes speculatively back.

And then whispers words that sounds far too much like something Arthur's father would see them burn for.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one's for Sabriel. Honestly, though, woman, you deserve better than nonsense like this. ♥

Arthur finds himself on a sharply-sided mountain path. He's blinking, disoriented, and still half-expecting to see a dragon standing before him.

It takes all of his balance not to stumble over the edge.

 _Witchcraft_ , his brain hisses automatically, shocked, and out of breath.

And then, at the back of his head, where memories play tag with current concerns, the barest whisper of a word: _Arthur_.

It tastes of grins and affection and a fair dose of sigh-heaving-eye-rolling resignation.

Hope flares, spluttering into Arthur's chest, and Arthur turns his head to the sound, even though, yeah, the sound is inside of his own damn head. Arthur's eyes narrow against the cold, as he stares up the mountainside. Some part of him still doesn't trust the Dragon – still doesn't trust _himself_ , come to that, what with being out here, thwarting his father with the very spirit of what he's doing. Some part of him, certainly, but the rest of him can hear the whisper and, blended through it, a reminder of Gaius's reasoning: Arthur can't deal with Morgana, can't deal with his father, without Merlin.

The wind is like iced spoons against Arthur's cheeks, and he knows he has to take the risk.

He's already broken all the rules. He's already torn his life apart at the ligaments. And he knows, he knows, however he coats it, that this is the singularly most selfish business he's ever undertaken and the insistence that it's for all the right reasons doesn't lessen that any.

Logically, he knows that he needs Merlin for so many important, kingly reasons.

Realistically, he knows that that has very little to do with it.

And so he walks. Walks, and follows the whisper in his mind: _Arthur_.

The mountain path is sharp and curving, like a narrow sheep trail, and is littered with enough tiny round balls of shit to tell him that that is exactly what it is. The air is bittercold-cleansweet as he inhales it, breathing carefully through his nose to stop the sting of it hitting his lungs with too much burn; the wind tugs at his face, and he realises suddenly that he's growing whiskers; realises, too, that he doesn't really care. The higher he climbs, the damper it grows, and the colder, stark against his skin, and he wishes for a heavier cloak.

It's one of those mountains that persuades and lies, leading him to continuously think he's reached the peak, only to find it still further above him. His feet hurt, and his calves begin to ache. The real peak, when it comes, is a surprise. Arthur has to stop, has to catch breath. Has to turn, and stare down at the unfamiliar land stretched beneath him, all rough grass and patches of snow snuggled 'tween other mountain peaks. He wonders where he is, whether this place is even on the maps he studied as a child; wonders, if he were ever to be king, whether he might be able to place it upon the parchment, if it isn't already there. He doesn't stop for long, though, because he knows that to stay too still in air this thin isn't wise. That, and because he knows that, if Merlin really is here, then he wants to find him. Sooner, rather than later. Preferably while the both of them are still alive.

The hole in the ground gapes like an open mouth.

Arthur studies it for a good few shivery minutes – it seems ridiculous, to be going down, after having just climbed up – then rolls his shoulders. Unsheathing his sword, he wishes abruptly that he were the one capable of a little magic, because some light would be really good right about now; he blinks at himself for another few seconds, at having even thought such a thing, then squares his back and strides into the dark.

Only to find that the dark, after some cautious walking, and a turn made after having stumbled and walked into an unyielding rock wall, is actually not particularly dark at all – and Arthur is left blinking, very rapidly, and rubbing his face, and staring at a slightly peeved-looking Merlin. There is such a flurry of words and accusations and shouting and protestations, that, frankly, it isn't until Arthur finds himself somehow seated beside the fire in the centre of a cave, with a remarkably bearded Merlin kneeling before him with a bucket of warm water and a slightly scratchy square of cotton, dabbing gently at the place where Arthur had walked into the cave wall, that Arthur actually realises that yes, Merlin is here and he's fine and _oh gods thank you_.

Merlin must notice that Arthur's brain has finally kicked in, because he swipes one last time at Arthur's face, then leans back against his heels, and says, exasperated, but with the smallest of smiles, “Do you happen to remember me saying _anything_ about you being an utter _prat_ , Arthur Pendragon?”

Arthur delights in that old familiar urge to grab his servant by the shoulders and shake him silly. And grab him by the shoulders he does, yes, but only to pull him in close, gruff and desperate, fighting the urge to shout at him for running away when he was needed most, fighting the urge to punch him for leaving, but ultimately losing the fight against simply staring wondrously, as if Merlin might somehow vanish again.

Which is such a horrible thought that Arthur forgets to be mad and, instead, digs his fingers deep into Merlin's shoulders and threatens, “Don't you even _dare_ , don't you even—”

Merlin starts to say something, no doubt something disgustingly reasonable about having tried to do the best thing, which Arthur really has no intention to listen to, so he shuts Merlin up the only way left to him; with mouth against mouth and kiss against kiss. Merlin actually starts to complain, gods damn him, and so Arthur grabs hold of his face and pulls him against him, even closer, with such force that he pair of them tumble backwards, onto the pile of blankets – which is presumably some kind of rather shitty bed – that Merlin had sat Arthur down on. All the air goes out of Arthur's lungs, with the pressure of Merlin falling against him but, all things considered, that probably would have happened in the circumstance of Merlin laying on top of him, however he'd gotten there.

Which is one of the girliest thoughts to ever have had the misfortune to cross Arthur's brain and, yes, that's even by recent standards. Merlin has shut up, though, which is a positive, and is staring at him as though – well, fuck, Arthur doesn't even know what _that_ particular stare means. Though he begins to get an idea when Merlin suddenly sighs, not at all sadly, but sort of... in accepting resignation, as though he's fought something for a very long time, but has suddenly decided that it's a battle he's never going to win, and then dips his mouth back down against Arthur's, gently, this time, lips and tongue soft as though they want to greet Arthur, as though they want to welcome him; as though they want to possess him from the heartstrings out.

This time, Arthur doesn't care if he moans, just slides his hands up against Merlin's waist, along Merlin's sides, feeling the warmth of him, here and real and solid and _okay_ ; not hurt, not gone, but genuinely, really here. It's only now, holding Merlin in his arms, feeling the nubs of Merlin's spine beneath his fingers, as he slides his palms up beneath the back of Merlin's shirt; it's only now that Arthur realises just how much he had steeled himself for something far worse and now it turns out that that wasn't even necessary; now it turns out that Merlin is here and fine and – “Are you sorry, Merlin?” someone demands, hoarse and rough and three shades from broken, and it takes Merlin's eyes widening for Arthur to realise that it was he, himself, who'd said it.

He regrets it, the moment he asks, and so tugs Merlin's shirt over his head to interrupt any kind of answer.

Merlin is looking at him as if he were a terrifying wonder, or perhaps simply terrifying.

“I can't–” he begins, so Arthur leans up and flips them over, pinning Merlin beneath him and kissing at a nipple. There's a wiry kind of strength beneath Merlin's scrawniness, but he doesn't protest, actually manages to say nothing but Arthur's name, and there's a wary hope in the way he says it, _Arthur, Arthur._

“Arthur,” he says, and kisses Arthur, hard and wanting, but he isn't answering Arthur's question, and Arthur knows it.

Arthur does his best to unlearn human speech with skin against skin, and lets Merlin's mouth devour him rather than answer him, as Merlin's hands slide and press, and somehow they're naked, and did Merlin's eyes just glow gold, and oh gods, and yes, and fuck, and please, and cocks press and push and hips jerk and thighs tremble and knees clench and feet cramp and Arthur's thighs are probably never going to forgive him for following up a mountain hike with _Merlin_. He doesn't care, doesn't think, does his very best not to think, just lets the world boil with pleasure and frustration and hands and eyes and the sudden, jerky stillness of crossing from here into nothing, wet and strong and Merlin's come upon Arthur's skin, and Merlin's thumbs dug into Arthur's arms—

And still, and breathing, and steady, and hush.

*

“How's Gwen?” Merlin asks.

It should feel strange, to talk about her, with Merlin naked against him, but it doesn't, and that says something to Arthur. He thinks it probably shouldn't seem as simple to him, as it does. He thinks a lot of things, but he answers Merlin's question with as much detail as he can. After a while, they fall silence, soft touches, and Gwen hangs between them, but not in bad way. Arthur wonders whether she'd be as easy with the idea as he gets the impression that Merlin would be.

The fire crackles.

“Why did you come here?” Arthur asks, tracing the line of Merlin's hip with a finger. “Why did you choose to leave, to run away?”

Merlin shifts, hair brushing against Arthur's skin, stubble scratching. “You know why. You know what I'm responsible for.”

Arthur considers that, and can't find words for it, so lets his finger mark lines from Merlin's hip, towards Merlin's bellybutton. “Does Morgana know that you're here?” he asks, instead.

Merlin shrugs, the motion magnified against Arthur's body. “Elaine does; she was the one who suggested this place. I think she thinks that she's trapped me here – I can feel the curve of her magic around it, and I know what it's supposed to to. But I can come and go; I spin her magic lies, and she can't tell the difference.”

“Then you can leave, with me?”

The fire whispers to itself, a thousand things Arthur thinks it's probably just as well men cannot decipher; all-knowing, and bathing colours strangely across the planes of Merlin's face. His cheekbones are so stark in this light, even with the beard. Arthur lifts his hand the distance, and thumbs along them.

Merlin rolls his eyes. “You know I won't. Really, Arthur, sometimes I wonder about you.”

Arthur snorts, and tugs at Merlin's ear, not roughly, but not exactly gently, either. He's so angry, but he can't be mad. Which is, probably, madness in itself. “You're a fool,” he says.

Funny, the way that the words _sound_ like endearments, now.

“Stupidface,” Merlin breathes back against him, and wriggles, until he's sitting up, and leaning over Arthur, hand against the side of his face, looking down, the fire colouring his skin a rosy shade.

Arthur could bring up a better retort than that, of course, of course, but for the moment his mind is just a wee bit distracted.

“You're wrong, about staying here,” he finally says, like a whisper.

*

The problem is – and Arthur knows it – that it cannot be so simple. If Merlin will not act, and Arthur is beginning to see that there's a trend in that, and it makes him both buzz, and rage, at the thought that apparently Merlin will make an exception for saving Arthur's sorry hide... If Merlin will not act, then Arthur will have to find a way to make him do so.

“I'm not that predictable,” Merlin mutters, mouth against Arthur's shoulder, the dark of his beard softer than it looks. “You can't just throw yourself at her and take it for granted that I'll come save you.”

Arthur doesn't say a word.

*

They walk in silence, from the mouth of the cave to the place, at the cliff, where the sheep track starts its wind down to the valley below. Gwen is somewhere, and Leon, and Dinadan, and Gwaine; hopefully still waiting for him; hopefully still safe. Camelot is somewhere. Morgana is there, too. His father.

Arthur turns to speak to Merlin; expects to see Merlin gazing at him but, instead, Merlin is staring, strangely, across the same space that Arthur had been looking a moment before.

“Merlin?”

“Albion,” Merlin says, almost as though the word is an experiment for his mouth to try out.

Arthur waits, with surprising patience – if he might say so himself – in the presumption that, you know, the utterance will prove to have some relevance at some point.

“Albion,” Merlin repeats, then looks at Arthur and says, “That's you're destiny. That's... that's our destiny. Albion. To unite it. You, as king...”

Arthur frowns, more out of habit, than anything else, then reaches out suddenly, rubbing a thumb against the dark hair that has begun to make its presence known on Merlin's face, scruffy and stupid and infuriatingly pleasant, and says, “And you as a warlock. As my warlock?”

Merlin's eyes are wide and almost painfully blue, pure shock across his face, then hope, then disbelief, then hope again, wild and young and desperate, but he doesn't say anything, so Arthur simply kisses him – and it's strange, he thinks, how it really is _simply_ , now, just Arthur, and Merlin, and mouths and hands.

Merlin is all softness and rough, mixed together, like sweet and sour and the whole world between. It's a brief kiss, a short kiss, to say farewell without saying _goodbye_. Merlin's smiling, when Arthur pulls back, and then he really does speak, grip reaching suddenly for Arthur's arm and demanding, “Don't you dare get yourself killed, Arthur Pendragon.”

Arthur holds back his sudden resentment, bites his tongue; says simply, “Don't blame yourself, if I do.”

There are tears in Merlin's eyes, Arthur thinks, as he lets him go. But that's the point, isn't it: he lets him go.

The Dragon's spell is just as warm against Arthur, on his return journey, but Arthur can barely feel it.

*

Nobody says a word, when Arthur returns on his own. Gwen bites her lip, as though she wants to, but she doesn't; just slips a hand in his, puts her face to his shoulder and inhales Merlin and woodfire smoke. Arthur wonders what expression he must be wearing, to cow them all so. He wonders if this is how his father feels, how his father felt, if it was something like this that turned his father against magic in the first place – the knowledge, that a man could do so much to help, but wouldn't.

Or maybe it was nothing like that at all; maybe Arthur's just projecting.

He hates most, the way in which he cannot hate. He can understand, too well, what it is that Merlin is thinking, can see that Merlin still blames himself for Morgana. Can see that Merlin genuinely believes he's making the right choice.

It's simply that Arthur knows that he _isn't._

He doesn't meet their eyes, as he asks the Dragon whether he'd be up for a bit of bloodshed.

*

Camelot swells around them, the guards let out a cry, and Gwen's tongue licks the taste of Merlin from Arthur's mouth.

She whispers, “I love you,” and her eyes are dark as accepts the sword he offers her.

Arthur knows she deserves that much.

*

Within the courtyard, sounds echo far more than he likes. Arthur's fought here before. Fought here before, with a dragon, too, but the dragon was his enemy then, not fighting at his side. He can't help it if he still has his mind half upon it; if he still cannot trust it, even as it does its thing with fire and magic and waking people from Morgana's spell.

Arthur has the striking suspicion that the dragon could fight the whole damn battle for them.

On the other hand, he also has the striking suspicion that it could turn on them at any point.

The dragon, it is pretty clear, is almost solely interested in Merlin.

Merlin, and the dragon's future-bending plans for him.

So Arthur fights, and Arthur bleeds, and Arthur listens to echoes through the courtyard. He knows Gwen is mostly with Gwaine. He can sometimes hear her voice over the noise; he's told the others to stay with her, since he knows that Morgana knows she is a weakness of his. He has seen little of Morgana, however, since she seems quite content to make his own men fight him. He's done his best to avoid his father, too, because _that_ is a battle he really doesn't want to fight. He focuses on his men, on Gwen.

Someone gets a lucky swing in and Arthur feels as though he's been cut with fire. He lets out a cry, though a hand to his side tells him it's only a flesh wound – deep, but not to the organs – and he wishes for his bloody armour, and half a dozen knights more; the dragon might be waking men from the spell, but they're mostly too dazed to do much more than get out of the way. Arthur swings, himself, not blindly, even through the pain – never blindly – and skewers a man on his sword. The man flails, and coughs blood out at Arthur's face. It hurts, it's disgusting, and he knows the man by name; Arthur wants to vomit, but he doesn't, just pushes the man free with his boot and keeps on moving. He wishes Morgana would show herself, would come out like the strong woman he'd known as a child: he wishes he could kill her, then wishes he'd never wished it. Arthur would double over, if he could, would sit down, would lay down, pant for a physician, but he can't, because he's Arthur. No, no, no, not even that. He can't, because this is for Gwen; because this is for Camelot; because this is for his father, who is going to hate him for it; because this is for his men, both those who understand the truth of it, and those who don't. Because this is for Merlin.

Arthur lets out a yell, a roar, screams out _Camelot_ through the blood and the sweat; hears the call of it echoed back at him by the walls of the courtyard, and by the men and woman fighting at his side.

Then she's there, Morgana, up in his face.

And in that moment, the dragon is nowhere to be found.

*

And Merlin is there instead, steady, calm, one hand pressed to the small of Arthur's back, the other hand outstretched, purring out words that make no sense to Arthur, but which make more sense than anything he's ever heard.

Arthur's whole body shivers and stills and wants to curve against him.

And Morgana, Morgana staggers backwards, as if she's been winded, as if she's been startled, and then pain blooms over her face like a flush. Not, Arthur takes a moment to realise, from Merlin's magic, no, not at all, but from the blade that Gwen is holding buried deep in her, deep in the woman's side; long and jagged and blossoming with thick, dark blood. The witch lets out a scream of rage and pain and hurt and pride and shock and confusion. Then she shudders, and crimson-purple-dark streams from her, and Arthur takes a moment to wonder whether this is part of the magic that Elaine had mentioned, the dark magic that Morgana had turned to, the magic that even Morgause disapproved of.

He takes a longer moment, though, to read the expression etched onto Gwen's face, as her hands pull the sword free, drop the hilt, and take hold of Morgana's hips instead, steadying her as she collapses to the cobbles, cradling her into her lap and pressing her hands tightly over the wound she herself had wrought.

There is a hush, across the courtyard, soft and startled, then a murmur, as surprise turns to anger and anger turns to frustration, the most deadly thing of all, before the spelled men let out a scream of rage and fear, and turn on Merlin.

Merlin is standing in the middle of the skirmish, now, one of his hands stretched out before him, and his eyes are gold, gold, so very gold. Arthur lurches at the sight of it, as though he's never seen Merlin before in his life, and maybe he hasn't, maybe he's never seen this Merlin at all, because that's a man, there, that's a warrior, that's a warlock, and there's blood dripping down his arm, yes, but he isn't faltering, and he isn't swaying, and he isn't backing away or leaving. His face is dark, not from shadows, but from that short and scruffy beard of his, and for a second he turns his head to Arthur, as though he can sense him, as though he can see him, or perhaps feel him, or something, but all Arthur knows is that that hand is in his direction and he feels no fear. Feels nothing at all, except the pulse of admiration, and of wonder, and of how much he wants to move across the space between them and crush Merlin into his arms, golden eyes and blood and beard and all. And then Merlin grins, his own grin, his old grin, and there's a tilt to his chin, as though to tell Arthur to wake up and look behind him, and Arthur moves with instinct more than training, sword meeting the body of the man behind him, and he's back in the fight, then, Merlin always in the back of his mind, in the front of his heart, but his sword at the centre of his attention, at the centre of his soul, just for now, an extension of himself as he swings and sways and parries and parts souls from bodies and heads from shoulders.

Then Merlin lets out a shout, and the spelled men fall.

“Asleep,” he says, as Arthur strides towards him, “they're just asleep, but they'll be their old selves, when they wake, those ones.”

Arthur finds his free hand reaching backwards to tangle awkwardly into the blood and mess that is Merlin's fingers, and Merlin grips tight, and holds him, grips so tight that Arthur's knuckle ache, and it's beautiful.

Arthur is supposed to say something nice now, he suspects, but all he can hear is himself crowing, “I knew you'd come, I knew it.”

Merlin actually looks cross, though only for a moment.

Arthur realises that he's begun to laugh.

*

Later, he's talking to Gwen, from behind the grime and blood that cakes his face so much that he can feel it as his mouth moves. “Is she going to be alright?” he asks, partly because he cares, but mostly because he's too aware, right now, of what her death would mean to Guinevere.

Gwen says, “Yes. She's alive. She's okay. Gaius is keeping her asleep, for the moment. Until Elaine can assess what state she's really in.” Elaine and Morgause, Leon had reported, had been found in the dungeons, apparently waiting Morgana's capricious decision about what she should do with a pair of sisters who thought she'd overstepped the mark. Gwen rubs at her face, though gently, avoiding the still-healing scars that Morgana had left there not so long ago. “I think she's... scared, of what Uther will do to her, if you put him back on the throne.”

Sick rises within Arthur, at the thought of his father. His father, whom Dinadan had somehow managed to lock away, and whom Arthur knows he must make some kind of decision about. Merlin had offered to reverse Morgana's spell on him, but they both knew that that would mean returning Arthur's father to the mess he'd been before. The truth is, Arthur doesn't think he can do it. As his father is, however, Arthur knows... Arthur knows that the stench of magic, the stench of blood spilt by magic, is something his father won't be able to take quietly.

Particularly not magic used against him.

It brings back the flush of all of the things that Arthur had promised him, to enable his father to let him out of the castle. Merlin, he knows, can never stay in Camelot, not while his father is on the throne; Arthur himself had, wildly, rashly, ensured that that were the case. And only now does it hit him – the full depth of what it is that he's done.

He turns his face to Gwen, focuses upon the strange blend of fear and hope within her eyes. “You'll see that Gaius heals her, won't you? That he gets her out of the city?”

Gwen nods. “Of course. She's my friend.”

*

It's Morgause, of course, who speaks out against releasing Uther. “You could just trust me,” she says, “when I say that it would be better for everyone if you either threw away the key, or let one of us undo my sister's pretty tricks. But then, I suppose the day that either of us trusts the other will be the day the sky turns green.”

Besides, they both know the limits of Arthur's choices.

He's a Pendragon, after all.

He makes sure, though, that his friends are long outside the walls before he does what he feels he must.

*

Uther's choices, it turns out, are even more limited than Arthur's.

*

And it turns out that the world will keep spinning, even when there is no more prince of Camelot.

*  
*

Arthur is sitting up and watching him, when Merlin finally wakes. Gwen is still curled between them, lashes dark against her face, and one of her hands softly splayed, like a fern, against Arthur's thigh, but the restless way she's shifting says she'll not be asleep much longer, either.

Weeks have passed, long enough for them to have moved from Camelot, and through two other kingdoms as well. Arthur doesn't know where Morgana is, nor her sisters, but the silence about them says they've gone to lick their wounds in isolation; either way, he knows they see him as little of a risk any more. For a whole range of remarkably obvious reasons. The primary of which is blinking at Arthur in a sleepy kind of way, and then peering at Gwen to see if she's awake yet. Morgause had, in fact, suggested that they travel together, but even Arthur has to draw line somewhere.

Week have passed, and Arthur is beyond his dull panic, beyond the majority of his rage, and has reached something that could be zen, except that it dissolves into blank resignation when he forgets he's not supposed to be thinking about it.

He's exiled.

Exiled.

The word tastes foul upon his lips, and he has no-one to blame but himself.

Even if he does seem to have people lining up, happy to try and take the fall in his place.

Merlin is yawning, when Gwen finally does give one of her funny little stretches, and opens her eyes. She mumbles something that sounds a lot like _goomorninArthurMerlin_ , all squished together, and Merlin grins at her, and leans in to kiss one of her eyelids.

This, of course, is the part of it all that keeps the darkness away, and Arthur drinks in the sight of them. Because this is what he needs, now. This is what they all need, if they've been flung – if they've flung themselves – to the wilds. If they've shot arrows into their own feet, and are going to be left limping in the world beyond home, then at least they can do it together.

Gwen wriggles in a way that says she's in no hurry to climb out of bed, and pulls Merlin down to her, all the while smiling sleepily at Arthur from around one of Merlin's ridiculous ears. Arthur takes the invitation as its intended.

There's light spilling across the bedpane, late morning sun, and Gwen's hair smells of the soaps that Dinadan had bartered for them, all knowing in those eyes of his – Arthur has resigned himself to the fact that his knights know exactly how Arthur's sleeping is arranged. Merlin is soft and contented beneath Arthur's touch, and Gwen is all lazy hands and mouth, and Arthur lets them settle him between them, sheets warm and light pleasant. Gwen's breasts are heavy in his hands.

“Don't you mind, though?” Merlin is saying, then, abruptly, preposterously, because, magic or not, Merlin still doesn't know when to shut up. “How can you not mind? You lost Camelot, because of me.”

Gwen's kiss stills; her hands don't leave them, but she's a warm presence, now, rather than a demanding one, as though she's stepping back, without giving an inch.

Arthur wants to say something, anything, really, but the words feel like glass, and so he says nothing at all, simply tilts his face closer to Merlin. He kisses at Merlin's neck, runs his tongue against the shells of one of Merlin's ears. Merlin's beard is still there, and he kind of likes it, though he'd never say as much, at least, not yet. “Merlin,” he breathes, mouthing at the soft of Merlin's neck, beneath the beard, “I was supposed to be able to keep you safe. You were my manservant. If I can't keep one, stupid, reckless, stupidly _brave_ manservant safe, how can I even pretend to be able to protect a nation? You were supposed to be _safe_.”

He can almost hear Gwen rolling her eyes. “Oh, boys,” she sighs, and pushes them closer, wraps herself around the both of them as best as she can; kisses as they kiss each other.

Arthur's insides are warming, as if Gwen had ripped his pain from his very ribs, ripped it free and made it dull like old bronze, like old bones, like old rags fluttering in the wind only to be lit with brilliant sunlight. He knows it's going to ache again later, but not now, not when Merlin is looking at him like that; not when Gwen is keeping them whole, as if the world were revolving around just the two of them.

Arthur lifts his head, can't stop himself, and the vow spills like a river of words, like a river of feelings; “I swear, Merlin, I swear on my mother's soul, that things will change when I am King.”

Merlin doesn't argue, Merlin doesn't ask how that's even possible now, Merlin just smiles, and then his smile becomes a grin, and then his grin becomes a chuckle, here and real and warm against Arthur's skin, and he's saying, “I know. I know, I know, I know it,” like a vow of his own.

Like a promise.

Gwen huffs against Arthur's skin, and he can feel her smile.

Arthur declares Merlin insufferable, just because he can, and pins Merlin's hands over his head. When Merlin laughs, Arthur bites down on the line of his collarbone. It's so strange, knowing that Merlin could move him any time he wanted, that Merlin could push him away, or break him, Arthur knows, if he wanted to; instead, Merlin just grins, and shimmies more, and struggles with his wrists a little, just enough to rub warm skin against warm skin, but not enough to break free. Just enough, as he pushes his hips up against Arthur's, the marvellous bastard, and Arthur _moans_.

Merlin teases, “Oh, Arthur, you're such a girl.”

To which Arthur Pendragon may or may not simply scowl in response, and glare, and huff, and lean in, and grumble, “Only for you, _Mer_ lin.”

“And what's wrong with girls?” Gwen purrs.

Merlin is hot beneath him, and alive, and brilliant, and his eyes blaze gold as he flips the pair of them over, breaking free of Arthur's grasp without so much as a flutter of his stupidly pretty eyelashes. Arthur gasps, and grins, and pushes him back down again, and they wriggle and they wrestle, mild magic and mild hands, bodies wanting nothing more than the feel of flesh on flesh, and mouth on mouth, and leg on leg, and dick – heavy and wanting – pressed against dick. They slip Gwen between them, add her welcoming limbs to the mix, and Arthur thinks he could get drunk on this, drunk on the feel and sound and scent of them. He stops, and he breathes, and he holds, and he loves.

Loves, and the world slows to this, paced and calm and here and now, fingers curled and lips parted, and the warmth of oil, and of Gwen, and the sting of something new, and the feel of Merlin filling him, even as Arthur fills the hot of Gwen. New, yes, and real, and uncomfortable, and marvellous, and every shade of colour in between, because it's Merlin, and it's Gwen, and it's him, and this is what he wants, this.

Living.

Arthur doesn't make girly noises any more, doesn't make a noise at all, is silent in wonder and pleasure and this and struggling lungs and clenching thighs and _MerlinGwenMerlin_.

Arthur thinks he shatters, when he comes, but it doesn't matter, because the world shatters with him.

*

When Arthur wakes, Merlin and Gwen are chatting by the window, and Arthur's insides sing with the strangeness of how little has changed, and how little can ever be the same again. His heart draws tight into itself, and almost forgets how to beat.

Gwen smiles slowly, beautiful beneath the scars on her skin, and Arthur can start again.

*

Dawn comes with the sound of a village in a country that is not his father's. Dawn comes with the murmur of things that Arthur does not know. Dawn comes with Gwen pushing at him to get out of the way and let him cook, because _Arthur what on earth are you actually trying to do to those eggs?_ Dawn comes with Leon and Dinadan leaning through the window, eyes amused and sheepish, and waiting for orders. Dawn comes with Gwaine smirking and making Merlin blush, while Gwen just raises her eyebrows and beats him at his own game. Dawn comes with the curtains pulled closed again, and Arthur kissing his mouth to places that rarely see the light.

Midday comes with the whinnying of eager horses, and the reading of a party to leave the village and find something, some life, some place that will take them from here to there.

“Albion,” says Merlin, from the mare beside Arthur. The others look at him curiously, Gwen smiles knowingly, but Arthur's breath is the one that catches. He knows the tone of that voice.

“Albion,” he repeats back to the one who isn't his manservant, who isn't his warlock, who isn't his at all now, except in the ways he finds matter most.

They ride out, beneath a midday sun.

Somewhere, there is Camelot.

Somewhere, a destiny is waiting.

Or maybe, more likely, has already begun.


End file.
